{personal narrative essay} 4-5-22
Early May 2009. Sitting in front of my expecting mother, six months in, due in September. She’s a long-haired blonde, wearing her blue lace robe, I sat within her land of pillows. I'm 3 years old. I love a comfortable place, a protected space. I’ve gotten used to waking up in quiet rooms; little talking. I still have never once spent a day away from her, I couldn't imagine it. She starts reciting words, elegantly spoken. I love this song. A copy of Amelia Bedelia, the one from her childhood, she always shared with me. I adore the look of her reddened fingertips pinching the pages. I admire the forms of her activated lips-talking. The sun touches me, urging me again. The antiphony reaches around my head and I watch the trace of light coming in from the windows. Then I noticed a quiver in her once steady tone, a crack from a tall standing voice. Her face is now rosier than last time. Her lips are trembling now. I don’t like it. She’s threatening to erupt...